


More Dearly Than the Spoken Word Can Tell

by momokame (idleton)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Fluff, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 15:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30040512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idleton/pseuds/momokame
Summary: Summer of 1939. Arthur bumped into the sun and it followed him home.—Inspired by ‘The Last Farewell’ - Roger Whittaker.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12
Collections: Short Stories Inspired By Music





	More Dearly Than the Spoken Word Can Tell

Arthur had to go.

The steamship blared. Calls for last boarders and shouts of farewell ringed through the quay. The clinks and clanks of rousing engines dinned in Arthur’s ears. He barely heard them, the sounds coming to him as to a drowning man. And he were drowning, drowning in Alfred’s arms.

With all the will left in him, he wrenched himself away from the solid arms enfolding him. His eyes flickered to ones as blue as the summer sky overhead. Only for a moment — he dared not look longer. He staggered backwards, out of reach of Alfred’s outstretched arms. He turned, his heart breaking at the agony in those blue eyes. He ran.

He made it just as the last gangplank was being withdrawn. The steward scolded him severely, but Arthur barely heard the man. Once on board, his determination evaporated, leaving him clutching the railing for support as he leaned on tiptoes, trying to catch a glimpse of gold-spun hair.

‘Arthur! Arthur! I love you!’

Alfred was pushing through the throng of people gathered at the water’s edge, arms waving wildly. Several turned to scowl at him, whether for his manner or the fact that the name he shouted was definitely male, Arthur could not say. He felt wetness rolling down his cheeks, his vision going blurry. He frantically tried to etch the final details of Alfred’s face into memory, clinging onto the hope that, should the coming months be his last, then as he lay dying on foreign soil, those blue eyes would be the last thing he saw.

—  
There's a ship lies rigged and ready in the harbour,  
Tomorrow for old England she sails,  
Far away from your land of endless sunshine,  
To my land full of rainy skies and gales,  
And I shall be aboard that ship tomorrow,  
Though my heart is full of tears at this farewell.  
—

‘Have I seen ya before?’

Arthur looked away from his perusal of the large map on the wall, ‘New York Subway’ painted in bold red letters.

‘Pardon? N-no. No, I don’t think we are acquainted. I’m not from around here — this is my first time in the United States, in fact.’ he said apologetically, eyeing the young man who had just spoken. He was — more of a kid, really — broad-shouldered, tall, but with thin, awkward limbs fresh from adolescence. He wore ill-fitting trousers that hung loosely around his hips, held up with leather braces. His shirt might have been white at some point, but now it was a patchwork of stains in various shades of brown. The same stains streaked across his boyish face, yet strangely enough, they did nothing to dim the brightness of his dimpled smile, nor did they detract from the brilliant blue of his eyes. Arthur stared, his pulse quickening.

The lad chuckled, a light sound that tickled something in Arthur’s chest. ‘Sure we are.’ he replied, ‘I saw you in my dreams.’

Arthur frowned, turning away in affront. It had nothing to do with the heat he could feel climbing up his neck. ‘Very funny.’ he said stiffly, ‘I don’t know about America, but in England gentlemen don’t use bad pick-up lines on each other, even in jest.’

‘Aww, it wasn’t that bad.’ the other said, ‘If I think of better ones, will you have coffee with me?’

Arthur tightened his mouth, gripped his umbrella harder, and turned around to face the impertinent young man, ready to give him a piece of his mind. The reprimand died in his throat as his eyes took in the lopsided grin, the widened baby blues. The churl even had the audacity to wink at him.

Arthur had always considered himself indifferent to appearances, and was ashamed to be so affected by some boyish good looks. He was not that shallow — and towards a man, no less. He cleared his throat.

‘Certainly not.’ he replied haughtily. ‘I hardly know you, it wouldn’t be appropriate. In any case, I have other business that requires my attention. Good day to you.’ He nodded to the young man, not meeting his eyes. A hand caught his arm before he could turn away.

‘Sorry.’ he said, the grin melted into a bashful, self-deprecating smile. ‘I just really wanted to talk to ya.’

‘What is it to you?’ Arthur asked, bewildered. ‘We don’t know each other.’

‘Not yet.’ The grin was back, less confident, more tentative. ‘But I’d like to. I’m Alfred. Alfred Jones. Mechanic, future world-famous aero engineer.’ Blue eyes still gazed at Arthur, too intent, too hopeful.

Arthur eyed him dubiously, but choosing not to comment on his boastful words. ‘Pleasure to meet you, Mister Jones.’ he returned, ‘I do not wish to be rude, but it seems unlikely to me that our paths should cross again. And I really do have somewhere I need to be.’

Arthur’s fingers traced his hat, but he could not seem to make them pull the object up over his head, could not make his voice utter a courteous farewell, could not convince his feet to move.

It was Alfred who broke the strange, awkward silence.

‘Could I have your name, at least?’ he asked, ‘I work at the garage just ‘round the corner from this station.’

‘And why should I know that for?’ Arthur shot back, aware that he was being rude. His manners seemed to be deserting him along with his bodily functions.

‘Car troubles?’ Alfred shrugged, his blue eyes even more intense when set on a serious expression. ‘Your name? Please.’

Arthur swallowed. ‘Kirkland.’ he heard himself saying, ‘Arthur Kirkland.’

‘Nice to meet you, Arthur.’ Alfred beamed, all sunshine once more. ‘So, how about that coffee?’

—

‘Wow, so you’re like, a knight or something? Do you have a suit of armour? How about a magical sword?’

Arthur rolled his eyes, barely resisting from kicking Alfred under the table. That would be childish. One child was more than enough in this strange acquaintanceship he had struck up with the persistent American.

‘That’s King Arthur you’re thinking of. I am a baronet, sort of like a hereditary knighthood, so unlike the people knighted in their lifetime, I didn’t even do anything to deserve it. We don’t have any legendary swords, though I believe my great-uncle still keeps his armour collection somewhere in the family seat. He’s the Earl of Middlesex.’

‘Middle-sex. Heh heh.’ Alfred waggled his eyebrows, biting his spoon childishly. Arthur kicked him.

‘Why do I suffer being caught in public with you?’ he lamented. ‘I could be at Ridgewood’s party right now, sipping ludicrously expensive wine and chatting to filthy rich Americans.’

‘Because you prefer huge servings of spaghetti meatballs and the company of charming, witty Americans?’ Alfred replied, his cheeky grin tinted with something else, something heated and heady.

Arthur blushed. He looked down, focusing on twirling another spoonful of pasta.

‘What about you — where are you from? You don’t sound like a New Yorker.’ Arthur asked, more for the sake of something to say. He had not the foggiest idea what a New Yorker sounded like.

Alfred was quiet for a moment. When Arthur looked up, he almost dropped his fork in alarm. There was a shadow crossing Alfred’s face, his eyes downcast, his elegant brows pinched, caught in the claws of some faraway past.

‘I— I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry — You don’t have to answer.’ Arthur tried to say, but Alfred looked up and shook his head, eyes clearing.

‘Nah, not your fault. Was just trying to think of a way to say it that doesn’t sound too pathetic. Don’t want ya to think less of me, Sir Arthur of the Table.’ He winked at Arthur, though his easy smile was a little forced.

Arthur nodded. He had a ridiculous urge to hold Alfred’s hand. He cleared his throat, signalling for Alfred to continue with what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

‘I was... we used to have a pretty large estate back in Virginia. Did pretty well for ourselves, ma and pop were good business owners. Then pop got the idea from some schoolmates of his to go big on the stock market. “America could only go up”, ya know? Only it couldn’t. We only found out he had put up the farm as collateral when creditors came ‘round one night. He disappeared.’

Arthur’s heart squeezed somewhere in his throat. He tried to swallow against it, and said ‘I’m sorry’. It came out small and scratchy. ‘I don’t see how that could possibly reflect badly on you though.’ he tried again, ‘This followed the crash of twenty-nine? You could have only been a little child then.’

Alfred laughed; it was quiet and sardonic, altogether unlike his normal carefree laughter that always took over the room with its brightness.

‘Pop didn’t shoot himself or nothin’. Last we heard he went up here, sworn to win back his dream, or something. That was five years ago. Ma’s folks took us in. At some point everybody started saying that he’s as good as dead, and that we should change our names to hers — Williams. I said no, we had an awful row, and I came up here.’

‘To find your father?’

‘To find my father. Do you know what I want to do when I find him, Arthur?’ Alfred was looking straight into his eyes, and the fierce look in his eyes might have been frightening, but Arthur could not summon any fear in himself of this boy. He shook his head.

‘I want to hug him, and beg him to come back. Ma tries to hide it, but she’s half a person without him. And whatever he did, he was a good father to us, before. He didn’t have to leave and face it all alone. I’ll beg him to take us back.’ Alfred passed a hand through his sleeked hair. ‘Ain’t that just sad and unmanly?’ He laughed.

There was a golden flock of hair curling upwards on his head now, in a most ridiculous manner. The charming, debonair look was all but ruined; Alfred looked half a timid little boy, half a lost young man. He was so beautiful, so lovely.

Arthur reached across and table and covered Alfred’s hand with his. Alfred started, his eyes flitting at them for a moment before going back to Arthur’s face. Arthur felt strong, calloused fingers gripping his own soft, spoilt ones. He squeezed back.

‘Not at all.’ he said, ‘I think it very admirable.’

‘Enough to win a knighthood?’ Alfred smiled at him, his handsome features softening.

‘Enough to win a knight.’ Arthur answered with a smile of his own.

Alfred stared at him, a dark flush stealing up his cheekbones.

—  
For you are beautiful, I have loved you dearly,  
More dearly than the spoken word can tell.  
—

‘You can just stay here.’ Alfred said, his voice tense and final, there was nothing suggestive about it despite the word ‘can’ — it was a command. His arms tightened around Arthur’s middle like hot irons, betraying his intention further.

Arthur took a deep breath, trying to put some order into the chaos of emotions in his mind. Indignation, anger, fear, grief, and love all warred in his head. He put down the letter he held in trembling hands, and turned in Alfred’s embrace.

‘You know I can’t do that.’ he said, trying to meet the blue fire in Alfred’s eyes. ‘Even my cousin had been called up. I— I’ve dawdled long enough, Alfred. I can’t very well forsake my duty to my country.’

Alfred’s hands dug into his bare hips painfully. ‘Dawdle? Is that what this is to you?’ he gritted out.

Arthur sighed, arms wounding loosely around Alfred’s back. He looked up at him imploringly. ‘You know that’s not true, love.’ he said, ‘I wish for nothing more than to stay here with you forever. We could go see your home in Virginia, see the endless skies over the mountains far to the west, ride to the other edge of the world...’

Alfred pulled him flush against his chest. ‘So why don’t we?’ he growled into Arthur’s ear.

‘You know.’ Arthur closed his eyes. ‘England is still my home. And my home is in great peril. I can’t blind myself to that, Alfred, I can’t.’ He drew back and tried to smile at Alfred. ‘Besides, what kind of knight would I be if I run away with my tail between my legs?’

His smile faltered and broke at the pain in Alfred’s eyes. He was smote with misery at the knowledge that he had caused it.

‘But you could die, Arthur.’ Alfred whispered, voice thick and hoarse, quavering on the word ‘die’. ‘You might die, and I won’t even know.’

‘I will... I will write, and I will make damn sure you are alerted if— If.’ The promise sounded flat in his own ears.

Alfred made a sad, broken sound, touching their foreheads together. Arthur heard himself sob.

—  
I've heard there's a wicked war a-blazing,  
And the taste of war I know so very well  
Even now I see the foreign flag a-raising,  
Their guns on fire as we sail into hell.  
I have no fear of death, it brings no sorrow,  
But how bitter will be this last farewell.  
—

‘One-three-three squadron. Come in, one-three-three.’

Static. A buzz, then a scratchy voice came through.

‘Biggin Hill. This is one-three-three Eagle. Request for landing.’

‘All runways clear. Touch down as sight permits, gentlemen.’

‘Roger that, Biggin Hill. God bless America, uh, also God save the King.’

Arthur’s mouth twitched. Honestly these ‘Eagle Squadrons’ as they called themselves were almost more trouble than they were worth. Instead of officially joining the war, which was actually what was needed of them, Americans instead volunteered to serve in the Royal Air Force — really, it was like asking to be saved from a deep pit, and the imbecile who heard you decided to jump down to join you rather than lower a rope. All feeling, no practicality, it was— he was—

Arthur shook his head, scolding himself for his own weakness. No use thinking about that now— it was a dream, and they were at war.

There was a clamour outside, the entire base abuzz with the arrival of the new squadron, due to take up duties of sweeping the coast of France. The voices were louder, more boisterous than usual, their accents soft and lazy, their laughter free.

Arthur heaved a sigh, sipping his daily ration of milk-less tea with a grimace. He supposed he ought to go and play social butterfly, no matter how much his heart was not in it. If something was going to happen anyway, then one must go through it with grace and dignity. The only thing you have control over is your own reaction, he repeated the mantra of his well-bred education to himself. Even in war, one must maintain the Stoic’s discipline of mind. Even if one was never to see—

He stopped dead on the threshold of the communication room. At the other end of the corridor stood something out of a dream, smiling, laughing, shaking hands.

Arthur’s mind was empty of all thought, his vision blurred, his heart trembling in his rib cage. He did not know whether he moved, only that one moment Alfred had turned and seen him, and the next he was in his arms, Alfred’s chest crushed against his. His own eyes stared unseeing over Alfred’s shoulders; the only thing he could think about was Alfred, Alfred, Alfred.

‘Alfred?’ the thought coalesced into disbelieving words. He looked up into smiling blue eyes, so familiar yet so fantastical he could not believe they were real.

‘That’s me.’ Alfred replied, catching Arthur’s hands in his. ‘I’m here, Arthur. I’m here.’

‘You’re here.’ Arthur repeated dumbly. ‘How?’ But of course he knew how — he had just directed Alfred’s squadron into base himself. Arthur’s brain had shut down; he was not entirely sure what he was asking.

Alfred understood. ‘Right after ya left, I went and signed up for the volunteer corps — There was this rich society fella sponsoring thousands to go over the border and join the Canadian or British forces. I knew you’ve become a wireless operator on one of those big bombers stationed near the coast, right? And I knew the previous Eagle Squadron were put there on escort duties too. So naturally I had to become a fighter pilot to see you again. I’m tellin’ ya, it was the hardest year of my life, and I gotta wear these now.’ He pointed to the thin wire-framed glassed now resting on his nose. They made him look older, more mature. He had filled out as well, the pilot uniform hugging his form flatteringly. Arthur’s eyes took in those details detachedly; his mind hardly noticed them.

‘You didn’t say anything in your letters.’ Arthur heard himself saying, he thought there should have been anger in his tone, but there was only that same dumb bewilderment. He could think of nothing else but Alfred, Alfred.

‘Wanted to surprise ya.’ Alfred said, throwing Arthur that bright, arrogant grin he hated so much. He hated how grey his world was without it. In a more quiet voice, Alfred murmured ‘Didn’t wanna worry you.’

And just like that, Arthur’s AWOL anger slammed back into him.

‘Worry me? Didn’t want to worry me?’ he hissed. ‘So you went and signed up for one of the most dangerous jobs in the war? In this war you had nothing to do with? Didn’t want to worry me?! Is this a game to you, Alfred?’

‘It’s not.’ The solemnity in Alfred’s voice brought Arthur up short. ‘And it has something to do with me. Everything in fact. It’s got you.’

Arthur’s breath hitched. He stared at Alfred, mouth falling and closing.

Friendly voices called from somewhere faraway over Alfred’s shoulders.

‘Jones! You knew Kirkland?’ someone asked.

‘Yea, we’re— cousins.’ Arthur heard Alfred say.

‘Aw, good to be fighting alongside family, eh?’

‘Too true. Hey man, I’m pretty beat— mind if I conk out early today? Arthur can show me my bunk. Right, Arthur?’

Arthur blinked at him owlishly. Someone chuckled in the background.

‘I think we gotta report to the quartermaster first or sumthin’ — they’re kinda strict about procedures, these Britishers — but don’t worry about it, we’ll cover yo ass.’

‘Aww, thanks man.’

Alfred’s arms draped around Arthur’s shoulders, confidently steering him around in his own home base.

‘Think you can pull some strings to have us share a small room?’ he grinned down at Arthur as they passed out of the hall. Arthur wanted to scowl and remonstrate; he really did. Then Alfred smiled at him and whispered ‘I missed ya, darlin’ into his ear.

He yanked Alfred’s lapels, crashing their mouths together instead.

—  
Though death and darkness gather all about me,  
My ship be torn apart upon the seas.  
I shall smell again the fragrance of these islands,  
And the heaving waves that brought me once to thee.  
And should I return home safe again to England,  
I shall watch the English mist roll through the dale.  
—

Arthur had to go.

That was what the steward seemed to be saying with his body language — he kept glancing at them, indelicately coughing into his cuff every now and then. Arthur glared back.

He was not going to go ahead and let Alfred be carted off the boat in a chair or a box. His husband — they were wed before God, whether any government saw it or not — was going to make a full recovery, as the doctor said, but only if he kept trying to use his legs as normal.

Alfred took slow, deliberate steps with his crutches, his brows scrunched in concentration. Beads of sweat rolled across his forehead, over his strong jaw, down his neck. Arthur walked half a step beside him, alert and ready, but neither helping nor hurrying.

At last their feet were on solid ground again. Alfred heaved a sigh, half-collapsed onto their pile of luggage with a grimace.

‘I’m afraid I’m not a very attractive sight, darlin’. Sweaty, gross, and incapable.’ he said, flashing Arthur a deprecating smile.

Arthur kneeled down at Alfred’s feet, massaging his calves gently. He smiled up at Alfred. ‘I think you’re very attractive.’ he murmured low. A few passerby’s still cast them strange looks. Arthur ignored them in favour of Alfred’ answering grin.

‘Well, I think you’re lovely too.’ he replied, catching his breath. ‘Shall we go home?’

‘Yes.’ Arthur said, the sunlight of Alfred’s presence shone on him, warming his heart. ‘Let’s go home.’ 

—  
For you are beautiful, I have loved you dearly,  
More dearly than the spoken word can tell.

**Author's Note:**

> \- ‘The Eagle Squadrons’ refers to the squadrons composed of American volunteers who went to fight in the Royal Air Force before America’s official entry into WWII. In front of the old American embassy in London, there’s a small park with a monument to these fighter pilots, with an eagle statue. I thought it was really sweet.  
> \- The song: [The Last Farewell](https://youtu.be/sGWs1HK8iDU)  
> \- Short, rough, and unbeta’d (actually all of my works are). Criticisms of any kind very are very welcome — I’m new to writing, I really need it.


End file.
